Kiss me, I'm Irish!
by Anatomy Melancholia
Summary: St. Patrick's Day fluff for MickBeth.


AN: Thank you to touchshriek and rijane for reading over the original draft and pointing out where I was going wrong!

--

A few seconds later she huffed again.

"Trouble?" Mick called from the couch, looking up from the comics for the third time.

Hunched over the long pine table, Beth squinted at the laptop screen, as if a frustrated glare would dig the answer out of her impossibly stubborn subconscious. "You know, there's a study linking memory and Alzheimer's. And I? Am going to die of Alzheimer's."

He blinked. "It's just a quiz."

"It's a dry run," she replied tightly. "Simone sent me the link." She exhaled - slightly bitterly, Mick though. "She said it took her five minutes. Well, so far it's been fifteen..."

"Dry run for what?"

Beth spun half-way around in her chair to face him. "Wednesday?" she said pointedly. "Trivia night at O'Briens, remember?"

"You're going to O'Briens?" Mick asked uneasily. He was beginning to feel like an unwanted echo.

She rolled her eyes. "I knew you weren't listening. Yes, O'Brien's, next week. Simone and some of her work friends have a trivia team, and next Wednesday I'm entered with them. It's the night-before-St Patrick's Day quiz. You know, green outfits, bad music, beer..."

"And trivia."

"Hey, I _like_ trivia..." she trailed off, turning back to the laptop.

"And don't laugh," he heard, muttered from the other end of the room. "This is not like Dashboard Confessional-"

"Or Jodi Picoult," Mick interrupted. "Or Margaret Atwood. Or sex on the beach."

Beth peeped over her shoulder, but the retort died on her lips. Mick's eyes flashed lightly, the twinkle of white startling in the soft lamplight. "The drink, I mean," he said, voice roughening. "Not the real thing. Because I can promise you you'll like that."

"Mick-"

"Beth," he said, tossing the paper aside as he stood up. She turned back to her quiz, refusing to meet his laughing eyes.

"That was nice." He came up behind her slowly. "You should say my name more often." And ran his fingers through her hair.

At least he tried to. Beth yelped as he snagged a tangle. "Owww! Stop that." And shied away from him_._

"Sorry."

"Occasionally I don't brush my hair and it gets tangled. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go find some food. At least food is dumber than I am."

"Don't you think you're over-reacting a bit?" Mick laughed, pushing her back into the chair. "For all you know Simone _did_ look up the answers."

Beth sighed. "OK, maybe she did. Or maybe she's just better at this."

Mick raised an eyebrow.

She grinned ruefully. "When she said it was trivia night, I thought we'd go, get drunk, find ourselves yelling outrageous answers and laughing about it. But she says they actually practice for this."

Mick mouth twitched. "They take it pretty seriously?"

"Yeah. Normally I'd cheat and google the stupid answers, but I don't want to be the weakest link."

He collapsed into glorious laughter. "You're worried about not being competitive enough for trivia night at an Irish pub?"

Beth opened her mouth, then started to giggle. "Oh God, Sam said I was going insane. I guess I never thought about it."

Mick laughed even harder, sinking to his knees and resting his head against the table. She pillowed her face into the side of his, chuckling softly and ran her fingers through his hair; her fingers slid cleanly through the waves. Bastard, she thought lovingly, he would have perfect hair.

"I love you," Mick told her when he'd recovered enough to stand up again.

Beth giggled again and pulled him down for a kiss. "Thank you."

"So," he said, eyes shifting to the laptop. "What are you puzzling over?"

He leaned against the table as she scrolled down the page.

"Hmmm, which artist has had the most Number One hits on the UK charts?" Beth raised an eyebrow. "It has to be the Beatles."

"Unh uh," Mick said softly. "I actually know this one. Not the Beatles."

"The Stones?"

"Nope."

"You're kidding? Oh! Lennon!"

"No way."

"I'm going to hurt you."

"Hey! Hey, stop that." Mick made a grab for the tickling fingers. "I'm not ticklish!"

"Sure you are, bat-man."

"Elvis," he replied, trying to laugh and grumble simultaneously. "Elvis."

Beth stared at him. "The King?"

"Yes."

"The guy they called 'The Pelvis'?"

"You're a bit old to be making fun of that nickname," he teased lasciviously. "You know what that pelvis means."

"I know you said you were a musician. Were you...?" she asked, eyes bright with mischief.

"No. I am not now, nor have I ever been, an Elvis impersonator. Not for money, fame, fortune _or_ the women." Mick raised both eyebrows firmly.

Beth poked his arm. "Oh, so it was the women that inspired your career choice, Casanova?"

"Absolutely," he rasped, leaning forward so that his lips were centimeters from hers. "As my buddy Ray always said, 'Anything worth doing well is worth getting laid for.'"

"And the PI gig?" she asked, her nails rubbing lightly against his cheek.

"I got the girl, didn't I?"

"Yeah," she said softly as she leaned forward.

For a long time the apartment was silent, but for the quiet kissing that turned into the rustling of clothes sliding off bodies and whispered pleasures.

"Perhaps," Beth said much later, "you could tutor me some more. For Wednesday."

He propped himself up on an elbow and smiled down at her. "If this is how you're gonna react, maybe I should go with you."

"Mmm...you can buy me a Guiness."

Mick bent his head down to hers again. "Kiss me," he said lovingly, "I'm Irish."


End file.
